how can words be braveshe goes only so far with her sentencesso far with little imperfect pearlswatching them break away from the strand and roll awayacross the museum floorshe pretends to be a paper dollwith those high shoesmoving her away from the earthwhere she belongs, but doesn’t want to staythe lumpy pearls are spinning across the high-gloss parquet how is it the wood shines so burdened all day beneath novices and admirersgilded old masterstheir oily stares, thoughtless and menacingdeny her the luxury of concealmentdoes she flop about the perfect floorscooping up the renegade low-luster gemswhere are her words nowshe can’t think on her feetthey are too far from the ground in silly paper dolls shoesold men are staringin beaten leathery soles that don’t scuffevery gem ball has disappearedthe broken strand dangles from her thin white sweatershe has no wordsshe has no pearlsthere is one set of old eyes upon herhe knows her heart was oncenot made of papershe wills the oily-eyed man to kiss her wet cheek and pull herinto the linen where she could rest alongside himfor all eternity

her silent fingers lurch deftly over the velvet ropeshe fondles the paintingan elderly gentleman in a white-starched shirtand shiny black Oxfords asks her to leave quietlywhich is fine by hershe has no words left anywaythis is an ink rendering I did in college – the assignment was to copy an old master
I chose Rembrandt